


A Few Things Aziraphale Loves

by EdnaV



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: And Crowley too, Aziraphale is so cute, First Kiss, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Oh my god I'm so soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 10:09:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19665298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdnaV/pseuds/EdnaV
Summary: Angels are beings of love, in general. Eventually, Aziraphale realises that, when it comes to Crowley, this means something in particular.





	A Few Things Aziraphale Loves

**Author's Note:**

> I've been obsessing over Good Omens for the past month. 
> 
> I've watched the mini five times. (A dozen times if you count the first part of episode 3.)
> 
> I've read the book four times in a week, trying to understand how the Pratchett/Gaiman style works.
> 
> And I've read so may good fics here on AO3, so I don't know if this one adds anything to our fandom, but I hope you'll enjoy it.
> 
> (As usual: English is not my first language, if you see any error I'll be grateful if you point it out.)

“Well, that was...”  
“Are you going to say _scrumptious_ , angel?”

Aziraphale was actually going to say that it's been _wonderful_. He has loved every moment of that that afternoon.

Angels are beings of love, of course; but in the particular case of that tea with Crowley on that day after the end of the world, Aziraphale also loves the relief that comes from (a) averting the Apocalypse, and (b) avoiding the utter and complete obliteration of their immortal souls. He loves it so much that he almost can't sit still: he keeps on leaning on the table, as if Crowley can't hear him despite the perfect acoustic of the Ritz. He actually moves a bit like Crowley.

If he has to be honest with himself, as it would be proper for someone of angelic stock of the non-fallen kind, Aziraphale loves having tea at the Ritz with Crowley, in general. He always puts it down to the funny way in which Crowley twists on his chair: something between a duel with a lack of armrests and the kind of movements for which certain gentlemen in Soho are ready to pay conspicuous amounts of money to certain establishments - money that, thanks to a series of bureaucratic loopholes, they will later “deduct as business expenses” from their contribution to HM Revenues and Customs. (Aziraphale doesn't mind that kind of establishment. Once upon a time, he asked Crowley whether he was responsible for bureaucratic loopholes, “business expenses”, and the HMRC; Crowley had replied something about _standards_.)

Actually, if he has to be completely honest with himself, Aziraphale loves going out with Crowley, in general. The first time was in Rome, at Petronius'. He had loved the oysters, which had lived up to his expectations. He had loved watching Crowley enjoying the oysters - he's still wondering how such a clever being had never tried oysters before. It was worth saying that silly thing - “allow me to tempt you” - even if it had taken him seven glasses of Falernum to stop worrying about the odds of a strongly worded note from Gabriel. Petronius' was the first time, but not the last. There was a particularly pleasant roast at a tavern near the Globe, sometime around 1600. They had those crêpes in Paris, of course - though Aziraphale suspects that Crowley likes crêpes less than oysters: he had spent the lunch asking him if he was fine after his brush with inconvenient discorporation. Back in the 1860s, they used to patronise a stall in St. James' Park which sold almost perfect caramel nuts.

And if he has to be completely, absolutely, honest with himself, Aziraphale loves Crowley, full stop. Even in the Blitz, when they had neither oysters, nor roasts, nor crêpes, nor caramel nuts. In particular on that night during the Blitz, when Crowley had saved his rare prophecy books: if has to be completely, absolutely, maybe even brutally, honest with himself, Aziraphale had _fallen in love_ with Crowley that night. Aziraphale has never been completely honest with himself about that.

Anyway, that tea at the Ritz on that day after the end of the world has been more than _scrumptious_ , but Aziraphale doesn't feel like sharing all those considerations about love with Crowley. He thinks that they would end up bickering over a few fine and many less than subtle theological arguments, which is one of the few intellectual activities that Aziraphale _doesn't_ love.

“Yes, it was _scrumptious_ , my dear. Shall we go?”  
“After you, angel.”

Aziraphlale carefully folds the cotton napkin with his elegantly manicured hands.Somewhere between the table and the entrance, he thinks of the chef's jacket and miracles a winning lottery ticket in it, feeling a bit guilty at the thought of a win that is enough for the chef to take a holiday but not enough that he can leave his job.

Crowley opens the door for him. They turn left on Piccadilly, then left again, through Green Park, their pace in perfect synchrony, as if they had planned which way to go eleven years in advance. (Considering how it had gone the last time they had planned something eleven years in advance, the bar for perfection is actually quite low.)

It's a sunny day. Aziraphale has a nagging suspicion that Crowley has something to do with the lack of tourists with a selfie stick, but he doesn't ask.Londoners are blooming on the grass, as Londoners are wont to do as soon as they think that the weather is wonderful (that is, whenever they glimpse a ray of sunshine). A girl is sleeping in the shade of a chestnut, another girl is holding her hand and watching over her. A man has taken off his very expensive jacket and tie and is sitting in the sun with a woman in a blue cocktail dress; he's holding her in his arms.

Suddenly Aziraphale realises that something is missing. They're not in the Bentley. He stops in his tracks. Crowley is grinning.

“Didn't you want to take a stroll? Feed the ducks in St James' Park?”  
“I didn't say a word. How on Earth did you know what I wanted to do?”  
“I've been around you on Earth for the past six thousand years, angel. I usually have a pretty good idea of what you want to do.”  
“But didn't you want to take the Bentley?”  
“Do you know what I want to do, angel?”  
“It appears that I don't, which is why I'm asking.”  


Aziraphale wonders if it's possible for a demon to be ashamed, because that's exactly what Crowley appears to be.

“I want to do whatever you want to do. Unless it involves dancing the gavotte, you're on your own there.”  
“Oh.”  
“We're on humans' side, aren't we? If there's something humans like to do is to spend time very close with people they...” Crowley makes a noise like a scratched record. “With people they like.”

Crowley starts walking again, at a good pace. Aziraphale follows him, looking like he's trying to make sense of a very long sum - one that's complicated even for an angelic intelligence. Crowley looks like someone who just bumped into a creditor whom he's been trying to avoid for a couple of millennia, give or take a century. Then he looks like someone who's decided to pay the aforementioned creditor while keeping his own dignity.

“You see those two girls, angel? That's an activity called...”  
“Yes, I'm aware.”  
“...and you know that humans find it _pleasant_ too?”  
“So I've read, and I've even noticed first-hand whenever I've performed one of my blessings...”  
“...or one of my temptations...”  
“...one of my blessings, I was saying, that involved...”  
“...kissing.”  
“Precisely.”  
“So, you've noticed _first-hand_?”  
“I'm not blind or stupid, Crowley. I know when humans are enjoying something.”  
“You're the most clever being I know, Aziraphale. But you do realise that's not what _first-hand_ means?”  
“Well, my dear...”

It's a very sunny day, so it's probably a demonic intervention that creates a shallow puddle of mud on the path, right in front of Aziraphale, who doesn't notice it until it is under the sole of his favourite hand-made afternoon shoes, making him slip and sending him on a downward trajectory. What Aziraphale notices are Crowley's arms that stop his fall; then Crowley's lips, that the devil is using to show him the meaning of _first-hand_. It's more than pleasant, and even more than wonderful. Aziraphale _loves_ it. Absolutely. Completely. So much that he tells it to Crowley.

“Thank Satan. It's not like _I_ had any first-hand experience either.”  
“You've tempted humans for six thousand years...”  
“I've been tempting them to do unpleasant things, angel. Not what they love.”

Aziraphale thinks that it's a sound theological argument: virtue is its own reward, after all. Then he realises something else - something very human, one might say.

“You said ‘what they love.’ You loved it too.”

Crowley smiles. They don't have a theological debate, they discuss a few practical matters that involve sharing bedrooms.

The cook at the Ritz will never ask how that lottery ticket ended up in his pocket. He'll be too busy enjoying an early retirement in Brighton.


End file.
